


Just A Small Thin Chance

by Silberias



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, The Dornish save the day!, no red wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 09:53:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3115688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silberias/pseuds/Silberias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prince Doran does more than keep the Marcher Lords at bay in exchange for Myrcella Baratheon's hand for his son Prince Trystane--he sends an army to defend King's Landing, and in the same stroke take every scrap of glory from Tywin Lannister and every scrap of power from Queen Cersei.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just A Small Thin Chance

When Tywin Lannister's troops arrived in King's Landing they were met by a flood of Martell banners and knights. The Dornishmen watched over droves of Silent Sisters who tended to the dead and dying, and the Lord of the Rock was cautious as he rode towards the Red Keep. This was certainly new, and he was sure he would not like what he found when he reached the keep itself. He understood paying debts and that the Martells had likely waited until the very moment when they might murder his daughter and her children. Though the beginnings of anger simmered in his heart he understood what had probably transpired here.

It did not mean he had to like it.

Horns were blown by men of Kingsgrave as he rode through the gates which still bore Baratheon colors though they were in griefcolor, and he was announced as 'the Lord Hand arriving,' by those bannermen. None raised a hand against him or the Tyrell host that followed at his back--and he was presented at the great doors of the keep with bread and salt. He would enter in peace or not at all, he understood.

The passageways bustled with the usual life and fervor of the keep, handmaidens giggling behind their hands as they left their ladies' rooms and pages hurrying about bearing messages between their masters and all around there was less the feeling that a war had just been fought at the gates and more that peace now settled across the crownlands if not the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. These people gave him and his retinue little more attention than was their due, and their conversations resumed after he passed.

On one hand it was pleasant--rarely had he ever come to this city without some intent on fixing mistakes and righting wrongs. It reminded him a little of when Aerys' insanity had been manageable, and their friendship had still flourished.

On the other hand it worried him as he came not as savior to the city but as yet another trudging parchmentmonger. If he was to assume the position of Hand of the King he'd wanted it to come on the heels of a heroic victory. The people, great and small, were less likely to fret over him if they owed him their lives.

Entering the throne room he stiffened as he saw his youngest grandson sitting with a dark-skinned lady at his side--the girl of an age more with Lady Margaery than Tommen. Joffrey was nowhere to be seen. Behind the lady stood a man he'd hoped to never set eyes on again in this life for a multitude of reasons--Oberyn Martell.

"Lord Tywin of the House Lannister of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West and Hand of the King presents himself to King Tommen I Baratheon..." Tywin tuned out the warped Dornish accent of the seneschal as he remembered another dark lady next to a golden princeling. His grandson Joffrey was dead--either by the sword of Stannis or the poison of the Martells--and now he saw his plans crumble before his eyes. He'd promised Mace Tyrell he would see Lady Margaery crowned queen, but the Martells had beaten him to it.

"Lord Tywin, please accept my gratitude at your speedy arrival to the capitol," Tommen's voice was still high with boyhood, though it broke a few times as he spoke, "allow me to introduce my betrothed, Princess Arianne of the House Martell of Sunspear and Dorne, and her uncle Prince Oberyn of the House Martell."

"Princess," Tywin inclined his head briefly, " _Prince_ ," both Martells nodded back.

"My brother, Prince Doran, could not bear you to suffer the deaths of your daughter and grandchildren, Lord Tywin," there was a dark laughter in Prince Oberyn's eyes, "and so sent a Dornish host by land and sea to intercept the usurper Stannis. Your son, Lord Tyrion, had mounted an admirable defense of the city but it was not one meant for a seige."

"You have my thanks, then, Prince Oberyn, for becoming the savior when my men would have been too late. I must beg where my elder grandson is, if it is known."

Joffrey had apparently dropped a pot of wildfire on himself on the ramparts, ending the lives of half his kingsguard and weakening the rampart where he'd done it. His body had been burned beyond recognition and it was only his kingsguard's armor that helped identify where the young king had fallen. Prince Oberyn offered the required condolences but there was a coldness about him that let Tywin know that Joffrey's caprices had not been half so well concealed as those of King Aerys had been.

Though it might have been their own personal histories that clouded the Martell man's eyes.

Or, he reconsidered at the small feast that evening, it might have been the teenage girl that the Dornishman had taken to wife soon after arriving in King's Landing. Sansa Stark was no more--now standing before him as the wedded and bedded wife of Oberyn Martell. Her mein was distant but perfectly elegant as Prince Oberyn led her to the Hand's table to present her properly.

Tyrion, still heavily bandaged but managing to make an appearance, told him that all of this stemmed from an offer to the Dornish to wed Princess Myrcella to Prince Trystane--but that no one had expected this much Dornish support. Myrcella's hand had been given in exchange to keep the Reachmen and Marcher Lords at bay, Tyrion having had no knowledge of Tywin's own power plays with the Tyrells.

"As soon as it was determined that the King was dead and that his younger brother was to feel the weight of the crown Prince Oberyn made his move. I can assure you that young Tommen was incredibly flattered and flustered by the charms of Princess Arianne--while Sansa has accepted her new reality with as much grace as she's displayed since I arrived here."

Tywin nodded, glancing long and hard at the son he hated and admired by unequal turns. Tyrion was the only one of his children who did not flinch at the things required of powerful men--perhaps thought some actions just or unjust, but never had this son of his flinched in the face of duty. It was something Tywin was loath to admit but this dwarf was the best of his children.

"You sent reports that she was beaten by the Kingsguard?"

"And stripped before the court while Joff pointed a crossbow at her, as punishment for her brother's success on the battlefield." Tywin nodded, secretly glad that he would be able to mold Tommen--and that Princess Arianne, woman she might be, had been raised to rule Dorne in her own right. He would need to take her measure and figure out who she was, but if the Martells were so viscerally willing to end hostilities then he owed it to them to meet them halfway.

"Marrying a man twice her age is simple enough after such treatment. Have you had word from the Starks?" Tyrion shook his head in a no--and Tywin grimly wondered if the Martells would stay true to the course should the Young Wolf need to be put down like a common mutt.

 

* * *

 

Princess Arianne loaned her a surcote of Myrrish lace for her wedding and a simple gray silk kirtle worn beneath it showed off the elegant workings of flowers and geometric patterns. Nearly only Dornishmen had been present at her wedding and instead of the savage stripping of the bedding ceremony she had been lifted high on the shoulders of several of her new husband's bannermen. Prince Oberyn had playfully run from the women who pursued him, barring the door against all and calling out that he waited for a princess wrapped in his cloak.

It was a wholly bizarre experience, to be sure, and Sansa had hesitantly--after those surrounding her bid it--knocked on the door thrice, stating each time that she looked for the one who had promised his protection. Eventually Prince Oberyn had opened up and thanked those who still surrounded her for returning his dear lady to him. When the door had closed finally he pressed a kiss to her palm before going to light the candles in the room. Sansa pulled the Martell cloak tighter about her shoulders, unsure what she should do.

The point, she'd grown to understand since coming to this foul city, of the bedding was to leave the bride and groom little reason to hesitate fulfilling their duty. Half the problem with bedding someone, her handmaiden Shae had told her, was the impediment of their clothes and how that turned the heads of those involved to mush. Sansa had not asked where her handmaiden had come across such knowledge for it was plainly obvious.

"My lady?" Prince Oberyn now sat on a chaise several feet from the bed that only seemed to grow more prominent in her eyes as the moments trickled by. Just yesterday had been the end of the battle, with Stannis Baratheon retreating to lick his wounds at Dragonstone. She'd known better than to cheer at the news of Joff's death, but tears had been hard to produce until this man had whispered of getting her out of this city and its stench. The idea for the first time in more than a year seemed plausible.

"I apologize, my lord," she murmured, hurrying to his side and awkwardly taking her seat next to him. She worried, but could not put a pin to what she worried over. He reached his hand out to her, palm up in invitation and she put her tremblings fingers in his, her eyes wary for some fell mood to take him that urged him to hurt her. He merely kissed her fingertips and knuckles. In the candlelight his eyes were nearly black, and he had a small smile on his lips as he set her hand down.

"You are a virgin," his tongue rolled on the 'r's and Sansa blushed for she knew this man certainly was not, "which means you may not enjoy this night, but I will try to help you do so. After we may try again, if you wish it, but if you do not I will bear your feelings no grudge nor your body any jealousy." She nodded, swallowing hard at the thought of bedding this man.

"Do we--" it was a halfhearted question with a halfhearted gesture, and her husband laughed briefly and brushed one of her braids over her shoulder--his fingers were warm even through the lace surcote and silk gown.

"Later, sweet lady. What have they told you of this night? I may need to spend some time on reeducation," he said with a smile that Sansa hesitantly returned. This man had greeted her as the King's bereaved betrothed and seen the cut to her cheek--and immediately turned and told the Queen that if her eldest son had survived the battle every injury inflicted by the boy would be dealt back to him in kind. It had not required seeing her scarred back to spur his words, something she feared him knowing of but knew it would eventually come to light.

She already hesitantly trusted him, and so Sansa shared with Oberyn Martell what she knew of how a man joined himself to a woman. It was pieced together--some from Septa Mordane, some from Mother, bits from the Queen, from Shae, and her own inferences. When she finished he asked her how _she_ might like it to transpire, and Sansa had frozen at the question. What the lady wanted had never been part of her stories or songs--the lady had been happy, but her knights and princes had never asked this.

"Because I think you'd like to be kissed, if nothing else," he said, leaning closer to her and cupping her face gently. There was the faintest catch as his chapped lips touched on her soft ones, but otherwise his kiss was gentle and warm. It took a while, but eventually she let him pull her onto his lap and rested cradled in his arms.

"Why--why are you saving me?" she managed, stilling his movements when he made to stand, "What use can I possibly be to Dorne?"

"You are perhaps the key to ending the war, my lady," he said softly, carding his fingers through the hair left loose when one of her braids came undone. She must have shown her confusion, or he was better at reading it than those she'd so lately been surrounded by.

"King Tommen will announce my brother as Hand of the King, and I will be named as Acting Hand until Doran sends another in his stead. Probably a Dalt or maybe even our poor cousin Manfrey. Since Tommen will marry my niece by special dispensation of the Faith he will be announced as a man-grown and the Queen will be sent away to Casterly Rock. Once we've taken every shred of glory and status from Lord Tywin, we will send word to your brother and mother."

"The small council and King Joffrey already threatened my safety in exchange for peace, my lord, it did not work--" Sansa interrupted, but Oberyn kissed her to stop her words.

"We will send word," he firmly began again, "to your brother and mother to meet _both_ of us at Riverrun. There I will return you to them, regardless of if they choose to treat for peace. We cannot break the marriage if they do--it provides the pretext for peace, given that I am now the King's goodfamily I would of _course_ only marry a lady whose family also represented the King's interests."

Sansa had gotten very good at listening for things unsaid over the last year, and she reached up to Oberyn's cheek to bring his eyes better into the light.

"And if they do not sue for peace? What then?"

"I break the marriage and leave you with them. I lost my sister to the last war, I will not see your brother lose both." Sansa's eyes grew hot and she rested her forehead in the crook of his neck, hiding the tears that sprang to her eyes.

"My lord, people have spoken many pretty things to me--most were lies, so please forgive me if I wait until I actually see my family to believe you," her voice was soft, as sweet as she could make it. Her honesty would cut to the quick if he was of a temperament with Joffrey--and it was exactly why she chose to speak. He did not fly into a rage, though, only nodded and then stood so he could cross to the bed.

His fingers were gentle and unrushed as he helped her out of her gowns, putting his cloak once more around her shoulders before seeing to his own outfit. The first time she'd seen him he'd had his blood up, a mad Dornishman covered in gore announcing to those gathered that the battle was won--and that Stannis Baratheon had been repelled from King's Landing.

In their bed he was attentive and sweet, delaying actually deflowering her until she lay in his arms languid and content. His words then were soft and matter of fact, but knowing what would happen kept her calm as he settled between her thighs. Sansa struggled to maintain that calm when he joined their bodies, his prick large and heavy inside her. There'd been a harsh pinch when he'd started, and now there was a deep ache inside--muscles never tried now stretched far past the point of comfort.

"Don't leave me, Sansa, stay--stay here," he murmured, hitching one of her legs higher on his hip. Sansa clenched her eyes shut, breathing as normally as she could past this--if this was how it felt when a man carefully took his time, she well knew why women like her mother and the Queen thought the first coupling to be painful and bloody.

"It hurts," she managed to say to her husband, glad that he minimized his movements as she got herself under control once more, "but I will be alright, I think, in a moment. Can--can you move? Just a little, so I can learn."

Oberyn mumbled some agreement, kissing her and starting to rock his hips into hers very shallowly. At first it was worse than before, but she followed his movements and the ache lessened to the point where she could ignore it for now--tomorrow it would ache again, but tonight it left her alone. Tonight she would seek refuge in his man's arms, and put the last of her hopes in his promises of escape.

Afterwards he offered her a cool drink--moon tea, she realized with a start, having always thought it would be served hot. She hesitated to drink it though, having heard of when it was improperly brewed it killed the drinker instead of preventing a child. Her husband watched her wrestle with herself for a moment before asking her why, and sighing when she explained herself.

"Sansa, I do not speak pretty lies to you when I say I will bring you home alive--but I've enough children, I do not need to force one on you," he chuckled then, "though if you want a herd of girls of your own then you've wed the man for the job." Sansa laughed with him, but set aside the tea. He didn't intend to poison her with it, only spare her.

"You are a kind man, Oberyn," she said softly, pulling him down to curl up with her. He huffed at that, murmuring that _that_ was something he heard little of since his paramour had left him. Ellaria Sand was called to be Lady of the Hellholt, and the home she'd made with Oberyn Martell had been fractured by duties they'd each long tried to keep at bay. In the end they'd parted on affectionate terms, and he had easily been able to answer his brother's call to defend King's Landing.

 

* * *

 

It took six moons to travel to Riverrun, and Sansa fell sick halfway there--and there was a tightness to Oberyn's mouth that told her _what_ kind of sickness she had. They'd bedded one another a few times in King's Landing, but more so on the road as there were fewer eyes on them in the small host of Dornish knights that accompanied them to Riverrun. He told her stories of his misspent youth, of his daughters--the six that had stayed with him and the two that had gone with their mother to the Hellholt--and of his beloved Dorne.

Her blood hadn't come for three full turns of the moon by the time they saw the red and blue banners of the Tullys rising up above the keep, though her sickness had begun to abate slightly. In murmured conversations over the last few weeks Oberyn had told her she might indeed just be sick--and that they would have to wait for another moon or two before confirming the news. If the growing firmness in her belly kicked and squirmed, then her sickness was one cured only by the birthing bed. It changed large parts of their plan--for he would not abandon her, and she resisted the idea of going to Dorne when her family was nearly in her grasp.

When she dismounted the small horse she'd been given for the journey her mother had abandoned all propriety and rushed forward to sweep her into her arms, weeping bitterly into her hair. Oberyn stood to the side, quietly letting her also cry into her mother's shoulder. Those gathered to see them, the aging Hoster Tully, his younger brother Brynden Blackfish, her brother Robb, and a few others, all kept their distance as well.

She never thought she would see these faces again while she lived--but here they were. Haggard from the road and remembered grief, but _here_. When her mother finally released her she took a few steps back to Oberyn and put her gloved hand in his. The man she'd called husband for half a year was strangely cool and distant--he did not want to cause her strife, she knew, but given Mother's reaction there was little he might do to cause it.

"Mother, let me introduce my lord husband, Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne. And this," she took Oberyn's hand with hers when she put it over her abdomen, "is to be your first grandchild."

**Author's Note:**

> Because I'm a bad person who ships this ship like a crazy person. This story is a one-shot. Let me know what you think!


End file.
